Search This Blog

Pedaling Downhill

Our 8 year old likes to pedal down hills. I think peddling downhill is scary, so each time he stands up on his pedals and begins his hasty decent I holler, “Why do you pedal downhill?” He hollers right back to me, “I like going fast!” Within seconds he is down the hill, around the corner, and out of sight. I listen for the crash, but the crash never comes. He’s a professional.

He waits for me at the bottom of the hill. His face is cool from the brisk wind, his heart is pumping, and his mood is high. The adrenaline rush is addictive so he cannot wait to return to the top of the hill, and once again, pedal hard and fast down the hill.

I like to coast down hills. The slow decent is the prize to the grueling climb. I prefer to soak in the success instead of rushing through it. In addition, I don’t like to crash, or hurt myself. Even if none of these were to take place, the fear that I would crash or injure myself keeps me from the escapade. I am not a professional, I don’t need an adrenaline rush, and I prefer using a fan to cool down my face.

Our son loves reckless abandon.

I love order and rules, justice, and all things planned and well thought.

I’m the one who tries to keep everything in neat little boxes, sitting on shelves, each properly labeled and color coded. Perhaps I need some reckless abandon.I am grateful for the lessons that I learn from our children. They help me slow down and soak in the peace.

Since I don’t own a bike I will not be making any trips downhill as excessive speeds. I will however, learn to allow a smattering of reckless abandon to season my life and trust in God’s safety net.

Get link

Facebook

Twitter

Pinterest

Google+

Email

Other Apps

Comments

Popular Posts

I love ice cream. I mean, I really love ice cream. I prefer it slightly melted and soft on the inside, almost like a really hard milk shake. I should have a sort serve machine in my kitchen. My birthday is around the corner. I'm putting a soft serve ice cream machine on my list.

Today I was helping out a flu inflicted neighbor. I figured that with the two extra boys, and my niece, a visit to Baskin-Robbins for a "Dollar a Scoop Tuesday" was in order. I had 5 children at the time, and a ten dollar bill - perfect.

We drove to the nearest Baskin-Robbins and I immediately noticed the "One Dollar Tuesday" sign hanging in front of the store. I also noticed that someone had taken a piece of paper, written $1.99 in Sharpie pen, and taped it over the $1.00 amount which was originally posted. In utter disbelief, I ran into the store to ask the cashier if the sign was correct and if they were charging $1.99 while every other store was charging $1.00. She nodded. I told her …

At some point we were only allowed
to call our only daughter Mrs. Jumbo. This followed her obsession with the
movie Dumbo and her compulsion to
nurture a fictional elephant painted on a television screen. For Halloween she dressed
as a newsboy, donning tweed boy pants, red suspenders, and a Scottish touring
hat because “Elephants don’t dress up as elephants, silly,” she remarked.
While most girls in the 1st
grade had their bedroom strewn with princesses, all things glitter and fluffy, and
closets bulging with tutus, and dresses that twirl, our girl was swooning over
animals, not cute animals, ugly ones. Her room was lined with posters and photos
of varying sizes of bat species and her shelves were heaped with non-fiction
books about Vampire bats, Fruit bats, and all types in between. Her jeans
pocket was home to a stuffed bat with long brown wings and tiny ears and, if
they were available, her comforter, sheets and pillowcase would have been
printed with frightening flying creatures.…

More than once I have made the
mistake of picking a boy’s sock up from the floor of the laundry room and
smelling it in order to discern its cleanliness. Baseball socks score highest
on the foul smell test, if you were wondering. While I should have learned
my lesson the first time, I did not. Thanking God for loads of laundry
spilling over the plastic baskets doesn't happen at the same frequency as
thanking Him for Cinnabon. However, after a poignant story told by my
girlfriend, my “Thanks for laundry” meter is on the rise. When my friend Catalina was a young
mom, dumping baskets of clean laundry on the kitchen table for folding was an
every other day occurrence. Her boys were smaller then and the frequency of outfit
changes was multiplied. When she inadvertently complained to her barren,
childless, girlfriend, the lack of sympathy was significant. “Be thankful that
you have laundry Catalina. I would love to be home doing laundry.” Hearing this story led me to take a
different p…